It hugs every curve, every dip.
I turn to the side.
There.
The slightest curve of my lower belly.
To anyone else, it might just look like I ate a burrito for lunch. But to Ryder? To the guy who knows exactly what my body looks like? To the town gossips who could spot a pregnancy rumor a mile away?
It’s a neon sign.
My spine straightens as I lift my chin.
The memory of the emerald dress hits me out of nowhere.
I remember standing in the bathroom at the club a month ago, that stupid tag scratching my side while the zipper dug into my ribs. I was whispering to myself like a crazy person, trying to convince myself I belonged there. I felt like such a fraud. A poorgirl playing dress-up in a gown that cost two weeks of groceries, terrified someone would spot the clearance tag.
I was so scared of being seen. Scared they’d figure out I was trash.
The woman in the mirror now isn't scared.
She isn't hiding.
I ripped the tag off the second I walked out of the store with this dress. I’m not doing mental math about dry cleaning bills or worrying if I’m smiling enough to be liked.
I belong here.
Not because of the rock on my finger—though, damn, it helps. And not because my last name changed.
I belong here because I survived.
I survived the humiliation. I survived the cheating. I survived the car crash.
I survived the cataclysm that is Gabriel Hollis, and instead of running away like a sane person, I turned around and let him catch me.
"You’re a fucking queen," I tell my reflection.
The girl in the mirror smirks back.
She looks like she’s about to ruin someone’s life and have a great time doing it.
My phone vibrating across the vanity scares the crap out of me and breaks the spell.
I glance at the screen.
Mom.
Ugh. My stomach does a little flip. It’s not fear, exactly. More like the dread of knowing a headache is coming.
She never calls me, too caught up in her own life and whatever guy she’s with to think about what’s going on in mine.
So that can only mean one thing: she knows.
News in Mulberry travels slower than in the Hills, but the gossip chain is faster than the internet. If the nurses at thehospital talked, or if someone saw the marriage license filing... yeah. She knows.
Lucky for me, Ryder doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself, so he doesn’t pay attention to gossip.
I swipe the screen.
